Uprooted
by probablylostrightnow
Summary: When you see the Circle as a comfortable refuge instead of a prison, its end feels like the end of the world. An introduction to Rory Trevelyan, before they became the Herald of Andraste.


You take refuge in a book.

You have been escaping into books for as long as you can remember. They provided shelter for the scared little child who was bewildered by the hustle and bustle of a noble household, then for the same little child when the Templars took them away from everyone they knew. As you grew, you came to feel the Templars had done you a favor. The quiet Circle was a better place for you. But still, the social and sexual politics of your fellow mages confused you, overwhelmed you. You spent most of your time in the library, absorbed in a book. Everyone learned, some quickly and some slowly, that attempting conversation when you were reading was pointless. You made some effort to cultivate this reputation. It insulated you and made you feel safe.

(The Harrowing came and brought more fears to chase away with words. Then the day when you learned that the Circle was not always safe, could be so very unsafe, when you saw your death reflected in the horror's eyes until another stepped in and paid the cost in blood. For months you saw blood everywhere but the pages of your books, plunged yourself into other worlds until you could face this one again. And the books did bring relief, bring healing, though sometimes you wake up shuddering, take a candle to the library, and read and read until the book drowns the fears out, lulls them and then you back to sleep.)

Of late, the Circle has grown far too loud, and books have become your shelter from shouted arguments and whispered conversations alike. Previously unfamiliar names are on everyone's lips: _Anders, Meredith, Hawke, Fiona_. Everyone is eager to share their opinion of what should happen, what should be done, and often what you should be doing. Their expectations beat against the walls of your refuge like storm-driven waves. (Before the Circle, you used to sit by the shore with your eyes closed, listening to the pounding of the waves.)

You have responded by seeking out more challenging, more absorbing reading material. Ordolus's _On the Ways of the Fade_ rests on your lap. The text is dense and allusive, difficult and slow going, with the constant need to look up references or try to fill in what's missing from the library. You know the book's reputation as an empty puzzle box - well ornamented, intriguing to pry open, but ultimately containing nothing of value. You are not certain you agree. There are hints of something - some greater understanding that you can almost piece together, but that still eludes you.

You are distantly aware that others have entered the library, that a voice is calling your name, but your mind is full of Fade meta-states and dimensional superposition, and you ignore the intruders until a broad hand snatches the book from your hands. You jerk upright. The fire surges within you, eager to lash out and devour. It is fire's nature to rage, but yours has been well tamed. You impose your will upon it and feel the flames settle. (You have only let the flames free to burn as they will once, and that was so long ago, before the Templars came.)

You can barely make out the figure holding your book, but squinting reveals him to be Rion, one of the louder voices for independence, for tearing down the walls and letting the waves rush in. There are more behind him, but they are indistinct blurs at that distance. "Rory!" he repeats, as if addressing a small and inattentive child. "We need to pack our things and go. The Templars are coming to kill us!"

A nervous laugh breaks out of you. "That's ridiculous. This isn't Kirkwall. There hasn't been a single case of blood magic here since…" You know when the last case was, but your mind slides away from it. "It's impossible."

You can tell Rion's face changes expression, but can't make out how. You fumble for your spectacles with unsteady hands as he answers. "The fraternities have voted to disband the Circles. We're all apostates now, as far as the Templars are concerned. They have invoked the Rite of Annulment. We have to leave before their forces arrive."

"You… you've spread rumors before, you've been wrong in the past. You said months ago that Anders was coming to Ostwick with an army of free mages at his side. I don't believe you."

"I'm sorry, Rory, but he's right this time," says another voice, one that you know well.

All of the will to argue drains out of you. "Ser Emris?" (Memories of moments together and long nights apart, each of you wanting what the other could never give.)

You manage to get your spectacles on in time to see the Templar step forward, Rion and the other mages shrinking away as if his touch were poison. "I saw the message myself. The Rite of Annulment has been invoked, and we're to hold you here until more forces arrived. We've managed to stall the missive, but you don't have much time. You have to go."

"But… where?" you stammer. After so many years within the Circle's walls, you remember little of Ostwick. You doubt that your family would give you shelter; with one exception, they've seemed happy enough to forget your existence.

"We're going to fight," Rion declares emphatically, gesturing at the small group of mages and apprentices gathered behind him. "The Templars have gone too far. They need to learn that mages are not animals, to be corralled and slaughtered at will. You'd be welcome at our side, Rory."

You shake your head. "I won't use my magic to shed blood, Templar or otherwise."

He snorts. "Then find yourself a hole and hide in it until the fighting is over. Let's go find the others, we're done here." He gestures to his followers, and they file out of the library.

You put him from your mind and turn to your friend. "Emris… will you come with me?"

Emris shakes his head reluctantly. "I'll not abandon my fellows here. And these directives…I can't believe that the whole of the Order supports them. We'll need voices for peace, among both Templars and mages. I hope you can be one of the latter."

"Me? But I'm not a voice for anything," you protest.

Emris gives you a sad little smile. "You can be so much more than you think, Rory. I should go now. You know that I can't be seen talking to you."

You reach out, and you and Emris share a brief embrace. You want to hold him more tightly, to refuse to release him, to beg him to come with you. But, though you have stood in fire and been cooled, surrounded yourself with ice and been warmed, walked in the Fade and dueled a demon, you still know the difference between the possible and the impossible. You release Emris, and with a brief, "Until we meet again, Rory," he is gone.

You search for _On the Ways of the Fade_ for a few moments before discovering where Rion has left it, on the wrong shelf. You briefly consider sinking back into your chair and picking up where you left off, waiting for the Templars to come and do what they will. Then you move the book to the correct shelf, wipe the moisture from your cheeks, and go upstairs to pack.


End file.
